


A Scream At Midnight

by rain_sleet_snow



Category: HEYER Georgette - Works, The Talisman Ring - Georgette Heyer
Genre: Dark Humor, Dissolute Relations, Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Married Life, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: Sir Tristram and Lady Shield confront a murder mystery.
Relationships: Tristram Shield/Sarah Thane
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	A Scream At Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venetia_sassy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venetia_sassy/gifts).



> For venetia-sassy, who particularly likes The Talisman Ring, and who mentioned some phrases that got stuck in my head and whizzed up like a smoothie in a blender: 'a plain man goaded to madness', and 'draws the line at corpses littering the premises'.

Sir Tristram was roused from a deep sleep by a bloodcurdling scream, which caused him to sit sharply up in bed and catapult his wife’s head into his lap. Lady Shield, muddled alike by this sudden displacement, the scream, and her own presently disrupted hours of sleep, protested.

“My apologies, my dear.” 

“It  _ cannot _ be morning yet.”

“It isn’t.” Sir Tristram got out of bed and pulled back the curtain a touch, revealing a full moon riding low over ominously dark woods, and a sky that showed no touch of dawn.

“Who screamed?” Lady Shield demanded, sitting up in bed.

“Sarah, if I knew, I would tell you.” Hasty footsteps creaked down the corridor, and Sir Tristram moved rapidly to the door and opened it. “Who -  _ Vincent _ .”

Lady Shield, who had no good opinion of Sir Tristram’s cousin Vincent - an opinion which was reciprocated, since Sir Tristram’s recent marriage had made it a degree unlikelier that Vincent Allingham should inherit his cousin’s dignities - retreated beneath the bedcovers. 

“Dashed sorry, Cousin Tristram,” Vincent said in a penetrating whisper he clearly considered stealthy. Sir Tristram eyed his cousin with disfavour, and wished that his sister Edith hadn’t chosen to welcome Vincent into her home. Similarly aged to her oldest son, he had been at Eton with John, and parents who lived on credit had been thankful to surrender him to Edith Mapplethorpe for long summer holidays; Vincent had therefore become a fixture among Tristram’s nieces and nephews, and Tristram’s knowledge of his flaws was undesirably detailed. Edith had tried, of recent years, to persuade Tristram that he had done Vincent less than justice. But even Tristram’s other sisters, and at least one of his nephews, had been out of reason pleased that he had married. There was no denying that Vincent was a rackety creature - and unlike Tristram’s disreputable cousin Ludovic, he was driven by a fondness for unpleasant jokes rather than a desire for adventure. He also lacked Ludovic’s essential kindness, if not his charm.

“What the devil have you done?” Sir Tristram demanded.

“Bit of an accident! Charlie dropped a glass and cut himself on it. Silly young cawker!”

“Charlie Mapplethorpe is  _ fourteen _ . Vincent, if you’ve been letting that boy sit up with you and drink -”

“No, no, no, no question of that!” Vincent said hastily. Sir Tristram detected a lie. “Only wanted to teach the boy a few card games.”

“Teaching a boy of that age to gamble as you do is also unacceptable to me. Nor can I think it will be acceptable to my brother-in-law.” Sir Tristram glowered at him. “Is Charlie seriously hurt?”

“Devil a bit! More shocked than hurt! We’ve patched him up and we’ll take him up to his nurse now. Little monkey sneaked down the stairs to find us!”

“See that you do,” Sir Tristram said crushingly. “Good  _ night _ , Vincent.”

“Good night, Cousin Tristram!”

Sir Tristram went back to bed, and disposed of his heir presumptive in a few well-chosen and thoroughly improper words. Lady Shield, whose experience of the world was wide and whose temperament was clear-sighted, gave these due consideration.

“I own I cannot like him,” she said, when Sir Tristram had unburdened his soul. “Eustacie becomes French with disgust whenever he crosses her path, which is too frequently.”

Sir Tristram reflected, with misgiving, on Vincent’s known preference for dark beauties and supposedly exotic foreigners. 

“Well, in this particular case, probably little harm has been done,” Sir Tristram said. “The worst that seems likely is that my nephew Charlie has received a nasty scratch.”

“My dear sir, you disappoint me.” Lady Shield leaned her head on his shoulder, threw an arm across his chest, and snuggled back into her accustomed place at his side. “No bloodthirsty French spies? No stricken corpse in the centre of the Great Hall?”

“Mapplethorpe doesn’t  _ have _ a Great Hall,” Sir Tristram said prosaically, and his wife stifled a laugh in his chest. 

  
  


The next day Sir Tristram was summoned to the rose walk by a white and frightened niece, who said Aunt Sarah wouldn’t allow her to see what it was, but it must be very dreadful, as Aunt Edith had gone off into a swoon, and Aunt Sarah had said he must come  _ at once _ -

As best as he could in riding boots, Sir Tristram ran. 

The rose walk was barren so late in the year, but it enjoyed a relatively protected position near the house, and was prettily laid out, with benches for the delicate to sit upon. It consequently remained a favourite walk with Edith and Sir Tristram’s other sisters, most of whom were significantly older than he, and considerably less active. Now it was frosted with snow rather than rosebuds: the early morning storm which had coated the fields and lawns of Mapplethorpe had left only the slightest dust on the rose walk. Certainly not enough to conceal the dead body at Lady Shield’s feet, or muffle Edith’s hysterical cries. After the first flush of relief that Sarah was unhurt, Sir Tristram recognised the coat and the outlandish pantaloons from the previous night’s encounter; he hardly needed to lift his wife’s handkerchief from the corpse’s face to assure himself that Vincent lay dead and staring there. He looked shocked.

“As I said,” Sir Tristram said, rising to his feet. “Mapplethorpe does not have a Great Hall.”

“That’s all very well,” Lady Shield said. “But If Vincent died after you saw him - why, then, who screamed?”

“I hope you are not expecting an answer to that question.” 

Lady Shield took her husband’s arm, and he drew her comfortingly closer. “You shall have to sleep with a pistol to hand, like Ludovic.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort.” Sir Tristram sighed. Vincent had been a dissolute, unreliable and unpleasant youth, but he had not anticipated so abrupt an end, or he might have spoken more kindly to the young fool earlier. He had never been a man for messy blood sports, preferring always a clean fight or a quick kill. Basil’s hanging had given him a - no doubt foolish - distaste for seeing even the most wretched career end in violent death. 

“Tristram?”

“Sarah,” Sir Tristram said, with more feeling than the words might seem to warrant, “I have had  _ enough _ of Bow Street Runners.”

Sarah Shield, all understanding, squeezed his arm tight.


End file.
